


Embers

by hauntedpoem



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Breakfast in Bed, Consensual Sex, Food Play, Honey play, Incest, M/M, Maglor's POV, POV First Person, Pampering, Post-orgasmic bliss, Rare Pairing, Seduction, Tirion upon Tuna, Uncle/Nephew Incest, Varda's stars!, Years of the Trees, musician/composer/ teacher Makalaure, sex as transcendent experience
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-27 11:55:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10019741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hauntedpoem/pseuds/hauntedpoem
Summary: Makalaure and Nolofinwe, like embers in the ashes.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Rare pairing... Controversial pairing... Hot pairing...  
> ergo perfect excuse to write food play+ rimming &co + transcendent orgasms .  
> *Sniggers*  
> Enjoy!

_"If he were to know that I desire him as one desires their betrothed, he would send me back to my father's house in a blink of an eye, disgusted and appalled at my brazenness, at my insane tendencies. My warped desires, unquenched by hours of music in the dull light of Telperion._

_Or... would he?"_

_( fragment from Makalaurë Fëanorion's journal, YT, Tirion)_

 

* * *

My uncle’s villa is a huge, airy building with sophisticated furnishings and delicate colours. He comes to my suite to attend to me personally, seeing how I got into the habit of entertaining his political guests well past the mingling of the lights and therefore I wake up late when Laurelin burns bright. There is an unbearable pain in my finger tips from abusing my harp. The skin there is raw, ready to bleed and my flesh is burning underneath as if I’ve been plucking coals out of the fire instead of playing my compositions to an eager audience. I also have a dry throat. I swallow and it feels unpleasant.

For the past two weeks, he’s come to my room with a tray of late breakfast, always saying that he would not bother the servants. So he does it himself. Someone’s prepared my bath and I soaked for a while, trying to empty my overactive mind.

I wait for him to come.

I guess he tells himself he’s doing it to repay me, perhaps... for I have spent my days in Tirion, composing for his social events and teaching music to his children. At least Irissë is an inventive pupil. I cannot say the same about her younger brother who is at the age where he spends hours playing with the peas and carrots on his plate.

Today he brought me buttery crepes, peach jam, dark grapes shining like precious amethysts, a steaming teapot and two cups. Honey in a jar, milk in a bottle, soft boiled eggs in thin porcelain cups, silver spoons and gem-encrusted butter knives. Fresh bread and hot bacon. He pampers me but he would never admit to it.

After a night of performing for half of Tirion’s nobility, he takes such good care of me.

He tends to my fingers and after applying a greenish tincture on them, the discomfort subsides.

I smile gratefully at him.

He extracts a hairbrush from a drawer and urges me into a sitting position. I never told anyone but I love to be taken care of. Being the second born deprived me of a lot of lingering touches. I grew up hurried. Maitimo used to take care of me while Amil and Atar were busy in their respective studios, sometimes in the forge, and when they returned they would sigh and kiss me but they would not stay. My uncle's hands are gentle, not calloused like my father’s or nervous like my mother’s. My hands are tired, so I let him focus his attention on me. He brushed my hair with even sweeps and gathers it in a braid. I can feel it. He likes doing this.

The sheets slide over my back. I’ve used the satiny material as a towel… I sometimes seem to lack manners, I know, and he must be surprised as I emerge, naked, like a butterfly from its cocoon.

I imagine Ñolofinwë’s eyes widening, their forget-me-not blue sparkling with interest and just the right amount of anxiety.

Yes, I am naked, and his hand rests, trembling slightly, on my back. He palms my spine reassuringly, counting my vertebrae in his head. They leave traces of fire, although they remain cool. I reach for the teapot and in my clumsiness; I spill some on the bed. It burns.

I emerge, nude and pale, my skin irritated, scalded.

His breath hitches, affected.

“I will do it,” he says and pours me a cup of fragrant milky tea with a generous amount of honey. It trickles down his fingers, reaching his silver, pristine robe.

I stay his hand and in that moment he knows. I hum in appreciation. This is how it's supposed to be. He lets me.

His eyes close in pleasure as I slide my tongue to catch the honey. I do so and then greedily down my cup of tea, averting my gaze. It tastes delicious. He tastes delicious.

He reverts back to the focused Ñolofinwë everyone knows. He pours some tea for himself but never touches it, instead, he gets preoccupied with rolling a crepe for me. Again, he dunked too much jam and as I bite, some slides down my chest and rolls on my stomach.

“Ah,” I gasp, pleasantly surprised. The jam is cold against my skin. It slides sweet and beckoning down my belly. It's a new sensation I need to explore.

Without an invitation, he won’t come to me. I sprawl on the sheets, gloriously aroused, almost kicking the tray off the bed. He has to understand that I want him so. It’s my morning erection, giving an overdue greet to Ñolofinwë. I stretch my leg trying to bring the tray closer to me until it reaches my shoulder. Unaware, I strain and push until my fingers get scalded by Ñolofinwë's abandoned tea.

“Fuck!”

I part my legs and wish him rest between them, I have been so frustrated these past weeks in Tirion.  My penis begins to harden, blood flows to fill it slowly but surely. It says _please_ , it begs him for a touch. Come, don’t be shy, Ñolofinwë, my father’s brother, my high prince.

He’s lost his bearings and this is my chance as I tug on his embroidered robe. He’s burning for me, I can feel it, he’s lost without my direction, willing to serve me to make him see things more clearly.

“Oh, Makalaurë,” there it is. Just the reaction I’ve been waiting for. He mouths at my chest and the fabric of his robe is itchy, unbearable.

"Uncle, take this thing off!” He looks contrite at me but then his blue eyes cloud with lust and I’m being kissed with such force that my mind shuts down completely for an instant.

I spread my legs wider, invitingly and he struggles out of his robe. Who knew he doesn’t wear anything under the scratchy fabric?

“Come, taste me,” I urge and he starts licking at my genitals with fervor, he takes my sac into his mouth and caresses my penis with light, teasing moves of his perfect hands. I feel dizzy and push the grapes into my mouth. I don't want to vocalize such secret pleasure, so I force myself to eat. Their sweetness soothes my throat, nourishes my hunger.

My fingers roam blind, ducking silver spoons and more scalding tea.

I scoop the honey and bring it between my legs.

“Let me feed you, Ñolofinwë.”

He says nothing, just gets back to work on my tender skin and I feel his tongue, wet and delicate along with the sticky heavy honey, pooling in between my cheeks. He spears me with his tongue and for a little while, I think I see sparks whenever I shut my eyes. I pull at his hair, my finger tips sore for an instant and I know I am ungracious and demanding but it’s all I can do to smother my enthusiasm and not shout at the top of my lungs. What would I say? Things he already suspects... How good his mouth feels on my most intimate parts, how perfect is the hand on my leaking cock, how hot the breath, how amazing is to have him deep inside of me. I want him to replace his fingers with his pulsing erection and coat me with his essence. Valar, I am starving for his sex! In retaliation, my mind, overcharged as it is, picks the notes for my next symphony. It starts in an unbearable crescendo.

He takes control and licks me clean, fingers and tongue playing with me, penetrating and cajoling me to open further. So I do. I get the whole jar of honey and he stops me in time, leaves me shocked as he raises my bottom in the air and prepares me with three fingers.

“No more honey, it will ruin these sheets.” I feel how ready he is for me and I smirk. I am a ragdoll in his hands. He lets my legs fall down and turns me on my belly, then pulls me again, flush against his pelvis.

“By Eru, Makalaurë!” I feel his tongue deeper, hitting nerves inside me and it’s such a perfect sensation, I don’t want it to stop.  His erection is flush and heavy on my thigh. I move in sync with his dedicated tongue swipes and his gentle tugs, coaxing beads of pleasure. I am wet and sweet between my legs and it’s all Ñolofinwë’s doing.

“Ai!” I cannot help the pressure so I come in several spurts into his hand. I move frantically backward, I want to give him release as well and he hums in understanding but as I fumble for his erection, he pulls away. He lies on the bed as if exhausted. Between his legs his organ stands out, against dark curls, ruddy pink, neglected. He looks at me and his eyes are begging.

He’s unprepared, open, conquered, with red cheeks and midnight hair spilled like tar on my pillow.

I have a phial of oil in a satchel under my bed. I extract it and he relaxes as I unstopper it. He is thick and hard. The image reminds me of a carnelian wand I’ve seen in a craftsman’s shop in Tirion. He breathes evenly but I see the restraint in his chest, in the bulge of the veins in his neck. I love to see unshackled desperation on Ñolofinwë’s face.

He becomes more relaxed as I prepare him then I read complete acceptance on his face as I impale myself slowly on his shaft. For a while, all we do is look into each other’s eyes. We feel the pleasure and there is music, there is sound, divine and all encompassing. I move slowly, languorously and milk him of his seed. he barely holds on, I feel it. Together, we are not afraid, even though there is the great beyond, the mother darkness and the beautiful starlight of our eternity. It holds us in that moment, captures our spirits for as long as it takes to reach again our climax. Although spent for his previous ministrations, I am not surprised that we come together. My ears ring with the divine music of the spheres, so far away, so close inside.

Our hearts are supernovas, bursting in a million pieces. I cannot look away. Blue, blue like the sky of my dreams.

Then they become like Varda’s stars and I can see Ñolofinwë’s aura, pulsing like a silver flame, engulfing me, bathing me in ecstasy.  We stay like that for a while, lost in each other’s eyes until the stars and galaxies disappear around us giving way to reality. We burn like embers now, no longer flames. Our breathing calms.

I must have screamed this time but he looks peaceful, unafraid.

 

 End

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are treats!


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